


A Little Light Reading

by Wotwotleigh



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse, WODEHOUSE P. G. - Works
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, POV Jeeves, Reading, Shaving, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-08-29 20:31:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8504365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wotwotleigh/pseuds/Wotwotleigh
Summary: Jeeves has an unfortunate accident which leaves him bedbound . . . and unable to read to himself. Bertie, as always, comes to the aid of the party.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [A Little Light Reading](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10634538) by [johnsidney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsidney/pseuds/johnsidney)



I fear that this is a tale that I cannot begin at the beginning, for my memory of the beginning is essentially non-existent. As far as my limited awareness is concerned, it began when I awakened in a strange room, with a strange woman standing beside my bed. 

At first, I was only cognizant of a dull throbbing in my head, accompanied by a wash of pale sunlight that suggested to me that the hour was unacceptably late. A moment later, I sensed the presence of another person in the room. My first thought was that, for some unimaginable reason, I had overslept, and Mr. Wooster had come to rouse me. With a start, I began to sit up, only to be restrained by a lash of pain in the middle right portion of my ribcage. I sank back with an involuntary groan. 

“Mr. Wooster?” I ventured, in a voice that scarcely sounded like my own. 

“No, my duck,” replied a voice of distinctly feminine timbre. “It’s only Mrs. Hodge. Your nurse.” 

At this point I endeavoured to fully open my eyes. When at last I succeeded, I saw – despite my alarmingly blurred vision – a matronly woman swathed in white, smiling kindly down upon me. 

“Good . . . day, Mrs. Hodge,” I said, being unsure of the hour. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Jeeves. It’s good to have you with us again.” 

“Might I enquire as to where I am?” 

“Of course you might, duck. You’re in St. Thomas’s. You’ve been in and out of it a goodish bit, poor lad. You were in a pretty bad smash-up in the wee hours this morning. You were out running errands, I suppose, in your master’s car, and someone slid on the ice and smashed right into you sidelong.” 

I struggled to remember, but to little avail. Indeed, I could remember nothing more recent than the previous night, when I had sat down to make a list of things that were needed in the kitchen. My head throbbed with the effort of recalling anything further. I tried to press my hand to my brow, but found my right arm quite immobile. I looked down to see that it was bound up in a cast and sling. 

“How serious are my injuries, Mrs. Hodge?” 

“Oh, quite serious enough to be getting on with. Your right radius and ulna are both bust up pretty badly, and three of your ribs as well. Also a mild concussion, and a bit of a nasty gash to the forehead. But you’re on the mend. You’ll be right as rain in no time.” 

“And does Mr. Wooster know . . . ?” 

“I should say he does! He’s been popping in and out like a nervous rabbit all day. Made sure we put you up in a private room with all the deluxe fixings.” 

I glanced about the room, finally taking in my surroundings. It was a very well-appointed room, quite large and outfitted with a number of comfortable-looking chairs. Sunlight filtered in via a large window, bedecked in gauzy curtains. I became aware, for the first time, of the smell of roses. An attractive bouquet of pink blossoms sat in a vase on the low table beside my bed, along with a notecard in a lilac-coloured envelope. 

“Those are from a Mrs. Biffen,” said Mrs. Hodge, following my gaze. “A Mr. Silversmith also rang us up to say he would be paying a call tomorrow. And a few lads from some club or other telephoned to send along their regards. You’re a popular man, Mr. Jeeves. And those,” she went on, “are from your young gentleman.” She indicated a pair of books resting on the table beside the vase. 

I recognized the volumes immediately. They were the two that had been most recently resting upon the nightstand by my own bed at Mr. Wooster’s residence: a handsomely bound edition of the writings of Spinoza – a gift from Mr. Wooster himself – and a collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets. 

I confess, I found myself moved by the gesture. I was, of course, in no state to read anything. Still, I could not suppress a smile.  
“He seems a nice boy, that Mr. Wooster,” remarked the nurse. 

“Indeed, Mrs. Hodge. One could scarcely ask for a more congenial employer.” 

“Well, I’m sure he’ll be popping back in soon enough to check on you. I must be on my way, ducky. Ring if you need anything.” Mrs. Hodge bustled out, and I succumbed to slumber. 

\--- 

I am not sure how long I slept, for my sense of the passage of time was severely disturbed. However, when I awakened, I was once again aware of a presence in the room. This time, it was not Mrs. Hodge that I found beside me, but Mr. Wooster. He was sitting in a chair beside my bed, and I gathered, from the frost-nipped appearance of his nose and cheeks, that he had recently come in from the cold. 

“Jeeves!” he cried, when he divined that I was awake. 

Mr. Wooster is one of these young gentlemen who does not, to employ an expression, wear the mask. Try though he might to affect it, stoicism is a quality that eludes him. Every emotion, however fleeting, is writ plainly upon his face. And now, he appeared so anxious and stricken that I was nearly overcome by a most unseemly impulse to press his hand in a comforting manner. 

“Good evening, sir,” I said instead. 

“Good lord, Jeeves! You gave me the dickens of a turn. Are you all right, old man?” 

I was suddenly keenly aware of a number of discomforts that had not been so apparent to me during my last bout of wakefulness. My head still throbbed, as did my ribs. My arm ached dully, and itched furiously beneath the impenetrable confines of the cast. “I have been better, sir,” I admitted. 

“Poor old Jeeves!” 

“I fear, sir, that your car is—” 

“A total loss,” he said with a shrug. “But what’s one car, more or less? They churn the things out at an incredible rate these days. I’m far more worried about the world’s stock of Jeeveses. They’re already in dashed short supply. It would have been a dickens of a jar to take the regular inventory only to find that we are suddenly fresh out.” 

“I appreciate your concern, sir, but I have been assured that my injuries are more inconvenient than life-threatening. However, I am afraid I shall be of little use to you as a personal attendant for the time being.” 

“Oh, don’t worry about that, Jeeves. We Woosters can rough it with the best of them if need be. I shall manage. Take all the time you need.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

He glanced anxiously about the room. “Are they treating you well here? Fluffing the pillows and freshening up the water pitcher and all that sort of thing?” 

“To the limited extent that I am aware, sir, yes. I have only quite recently become more or less conscious of what is transpiring. However . . .” I shifted slightly, and winced at the growing discomfort in my ribs. 

“Yes, Jeeves?” 

“A little morphine would not be unwelcome at this juncture.” 

Mr. Wooster leaped so quickly for the call bell that I feared he would upset the water pitcher by my bed. Having pressed the bell several times, he returned to his chair. “There,” he said. “Just sit tight, and we shall have you fixed up in two shakes of a whatsit.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

He brightened suddenly. “I say. I brought you some things. Just a couple of books, to help while away the lonely hours. I hope you don’t mind, but I, er, nipped into your lair and collared the first two that came to hand.” 

“They have been brought to my attention, sir. Thank you. You are most kind.” 

“If you’d prefer, I could pop off to the nearest bookseller and nab something new for you. A little variety and all that.” 

“I would not wish to put you to any trouble, sir.” 

“Nonsense, Jeeves. Name anything you desire, and it shall be yours.” 

“Well, sir . . . while I greatly appreciate the offer, I fear that reading anything is quite out of the question in my current state. Even if I had the use of both hands and could easily hold a book and turn the pages, I fear that my eyes are simply not up to the task at present.” 

Mr. Wooster looked aghast. “Oh, Jeeves! How bally awful!” 

“It will pass, sir.” 

“Yes, but, dash it! I remember when I had my appendix out as a young squirt. The only thing that kept me from completely losing my nut was the constant stream of _Boy’s Owns_ that my Aunt Dahlia smuggled in.” 

“I shall endeavour to bear up, sir.” 

But he appeared distrait and unsatisfied. At this point Mrs. Hodge returned, having heard the bell’s insistent summonses. While she ministered to me, Mr. Wooster sat silently, his brow furrowed in contemplation. It was clear that he did not intend to let the matter rest. 

As soon as Mrs. Hodge departed, he spoke again. 

“Jeeves, I have hit upon a solution to this vexing problem.” 

“Indeed, sir?” 

“Yes, and I will brook no objection. Jeeves,” he said gravely, “I shall read to you.” 

“Sir, I would hardly expect you to—” I began, but he held up his hand. 

“I will not take no for an answer. A Wooster cannot sit idly by while a pal suffers. You don’t mind if I refer to you as a pal, do you, Jeeves?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Well, it’s settled, then.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

I uttered this last remark with a certain amount of what Mr. Wooster would call “soupiness” in my tone. It has always been my policy to maintain a level of professional detachment in my relations with any employer. I have found that it creates in them the sense, however illusory, that I am somehow above it all. This, in turn, lends me an air of gravitas and authority that considerably facilitates the guidance and management of the young gentleman when the need arises. 

In fact, I was deeply touched. I had not been relishing the notion of being bedbound for however long the nature of my injuries necessitated, much less the prospect of facing this sentence without the ability to read so much as a newspaper. I did not, therefore, put up much of a fight. 

“Right, then!” said Mr. Wooster triumphantly, and he reached for _The Philosophy of Spinoza_. 

\--- 

I do not remember much of our first session. Mr. Wooster is possessed of a pleasingly resonant baritone voice, and this, combined with the soporific effects of the recently administered morphine, soon lulled me into a deep sleep. I did not awaken until the next morning. 

Although my ribs and arm still brought me great discomfort, my head felt somewhat clearer than it had the previous day. I ate a reasonably hearty breakfast and spent a pleasant hour in the company of my uncle, Charlie Silversmith, who drove up from Deverill to call upon me. Mr. Wooster did not arrive until the late afternoon. 

“Awfully sorry, Jeeves,” he said as he hung up his coat and settled in beside me. “It takes me a dickens of a time to put myself together when I’m left to my own devices.” 

“It is quite all right, sir.” 

“I hope you haven’t been wasting away with ennui, if ennui is the word I want.” 

“No, sir. I have had a visit from Mr. Silversmith.” 

“Oh, your Uncle Charlie was here? Well, well. Sorry I missed him.” 

“Yes, sir. He sends his regards.” 

We passed some minutes exchanging pleasantries in this fashion, and then Mr. Wooster shifted uncomfortably in his seat, as if preparing to broach an unpleasant subject. “Jeeves,” he said, “about this reading wheeze of ours.” 

“Are you finding the arrangement disagreeable, sir?” 

“Oh no, nothing of the sort, old chap. Only too happy to help a fellow creature. It’s just, well . . . I hesitate to speak ill of your chum Spinoza, since it’s clear you hold the bird in high esteem and all that, but . . .” 

I raised my eyebrows in feigned incredulity. “You do not enjoy Spinoza, sir?” 

“I mean, dash it, I’m sure he’s a wonderful chap and all, but his work’s . . . well, a bit of a slog. That bit I read yesterday even put you to sleep.”

“It does not, perhaps, lend itself to casual reading, sir.” 

“I’ll say it doesn’t. I mean, take for example this passage.” He opened the book to a page that he had marked with a bit of ribbon, and read: 

“’It is of the nature of reason to consider things as necessary and not as contingent. This necessity of things it perceives truly, that is to say, as it is in itself. But this necessity of things is the necessity itself of the eternal nature of God. Therefore it is of the nature of reason to consider things under this form of eternity. Moreover, the foundations of reason are notions which explain those things which are common to all, and these things explain the essence of no individual thing, and must therefore be conceived without any relation to time, but under a certain form of eternity.’ I mean to say, what?” 

“Once appreciates your point, sir.” 

“What does it all mean, Jeeves?” 

“That is the essential question, sir.” 

“Hmm. Yes, well. If it’s all the same to you, why don’t we try something else for a bit?” 

“Very good, sir.” 

“You wouldn’t be averse to a bit of the Shakespeare, then?” 

“Certainly not, sir.” 

“Right ho.” He picked up the volume of sonnets, which fell open to a well-thumbed passage, and began to read once more. “’A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion . . .’” 

Here he stopped, cleared his throat several times, and poured himself a glass of water. After drinking deeply, he began again: 

“’A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted,  
With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion;  
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,  
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;  
A man in hue, all ‘hues’ in his controlling,  
Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.  
And for a woman wert thou first created;  
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,  
And by addition me of thee defeated,  
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.  
But since . . .’” 

Here he faltered once more, casting a wide-eyed glance in my direction. I met his questioning look with one of silent expectation. He cleared his throat again, raised the book so that his face was mostly hidden from my view, and continued. 

“’But since she, er . . . prick’d thee out for women’s pleasure,  
Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure.’” 

At this juncture, I feel I must confess to a fact of which I am not proud: I have always derived a certain satisfaction from seeing Mr. Wooster flustered.

I would not go so far as to use the term _Schadenfreude_ , although there was perhaps an element of such in the earliest part of our association. I am fond of Mr. Wooster, and wish no genuine harm upon him. Nor do I desire to make a Roman holiday of his sufferings and embarrassments, although I have found it convenient to do so at times in order to bring about a satisfactory conclusion to the various contretemps in which he often finds himself embroiled. Nevertheless, there is something about observing the young gentleman in a vexed or disquieted state that evinces in me an undefinable sort of pleasure. 

I thought at first that it was simply amusement tinged with sympathy, and perhaps a sense of pleasant anticipation of the happy resolution which I invariably would have a hand in bringing about. But in this particular instance, as I watched a blush slowly creep up from beneath his collar and flood the parts of his face not concealed from me behind the pages of the book, I sensed that there was another element to this phenomenon, the nature of which still eluded me. 

Whatever it was, I knew that I desired more of it. 

\--- 

I carefully composed my face into an impassive mask as Mr. Wooster lowered the book. His cheeks were still burning brightly, but it was clear that he, too, was attempting to feign nonchalance. 

“You know, Jeeves,” he said, riffling through the pages and assiduously avoiding my gaze, “I don’t know if you have ever experienced this, but there are times, reading old William S., that I’m left with the feeling that the blighter has just been elbowing me in the ribs and winking.” 

“Indeed, sir. Salacious innuendo is a device frequently employed in the works of Shakespeare.” 

“The way the nibs in school used to go on about him, you’d think he was one of those quiet, respectable old birds who holed up in the woods, leading a monk-like existence and Suffering for His Art. Instead, he seems to have been the type who would have been regularly called into the headmaster’s office to take a few of the juiciest across the back end for passing naughty parchments under his desk at school. It just goes to show, you never can tell.” 

“Very true, sir.” 

“And what do you suppose he’s on about with all this ‘master-mistress of my passion’ stuff? Dashed rummy, it strikes me as.” 

“I am sure it has been a matter of much debate amongst scholars of English literature.” 

“Still, I suppose he’s got nothing on a lot of these modern writers.” 

I found myself strangely compelled by the turn the conversation had taken. “Indeed, sir,” I remarked in what I hoped was a convincingly dispassionate tone. “The works of D. H. Lawrence come to mind.” 

Mr. Wooster frowned thoughtfully. “Isn’t that the chap who used to charge about in the desert hobnobbing with sheikhs and whatnot?” 

“No, sir. You are thinking of T. E. Lawrence. The person of whom I am speaking is a poet and novelist. It is said that his latest novel is so ribald that it is quite impossible to obtain an uncensored edition outside of Italy or France.” 

“Gosh! And this bird writes off-colour verse as well?” 

“His poetry may certainly be described as . . . evocative, sir.” 

“Hmm,” said Mr. Wooster, and there the matter rested. The remainder of the afternoon passed uneventfully. He read several more sonnets, but none of these evoked in him the same electrifying response as the 20th. 

\--- 

The next morning, with the help of the kindly Mrs. Hodge, I managed to rise from the bed and spend a short time walking about the room. My ribs throbbed with every step, and I quickly grew fatigued and dizzy, but I was nonetheless grateful for even a brief opportunity to stretch my legs. When Mr. Wooster arrived – this time a full thirty minutes before the hour of noon – I was seated in an armchair by the window with a blanket drawn over my lap. The young gentleman regarded me with concern. 

“Er, Jeeves,” he said, “it’s good to see you up and about and all that . . . or at least, upper and abouter than you were . . . but one wonders. Is this prudent? Is this wise? All this bounding about and leaping into armchairs, I mean.” 

“I appreciate your solicitousness, sir. However, the doctor is of the opinion that mild exercise, taken with proper precautions, stimulates the healing process.” 

He appeared unconvinced. “Well, I suppose we must take his word for it, then. I just hope the old bird isn’t talking out of his hat.” 

“He strikes me as a competent physician, sir.” 

“If you say so, Jeeves.” He pulled up a chair and seated himself across from me, and I noted with interest that he carried a parcel. He must have noticed my glance, for he brightened visibly. “I brought you something, Jeeves,” he said, lifting the object. His gaze moved to my immobilized arm. “Oh, I suppose I had better open it for you.” 

“If you would be so kind, sir.” 

He removed the string and paper, and produced a handsome silver box. “It’s a shave kit,” he explained, turning the box over in his hands. 

“Thank you, sir. You are most generous.” 

“Not at all, Jeeves. I, er, don’t want to wound your finer feelings or anything, but you’re starting to look a bit like one of those Heralds of the Red Dawn blighters that Bingo Little used to swank about with.” 

I passed my free hand over my stubbled cheek and chin. “Yes, sir. I fear that my condition has somewhat hampered my ability to perform my customary toilette.” 

“Of course, Jeeves, of course! I understand and sympathize. Knowing your feelings about whiskers, I imagine the whole thing must be a dickens of a shock to your system. In fact, I wondered if I might . . . well, it’s dashed awkward now that I come to say it out loud, but . . .” 

“Yes, sir?” 

“Well, I thought I might give you a shave.” 

I found myself momentarily speechless. My heart palpitated in an alarming manner, and it was with some effort that I maintained my customarily aloof appearance. 

“I hardly think that will be necessary, sir,” I said in the most cool and level tone that I could manage. 

Mr. Wooster looked momentarily abashed, but a familiar stubborn glint quickly stole into his eyes. It was a look I had seen many times during our association – the look of a young employer preparing to assert himself. 

“Now, Jeeves,” he said, drawing himself up, “I know you’re a stickler for propriety and all that, but you have to admit the circs are a little unusual. You can’t be happy going about with that fungus all over your map. Just think of it as the young master returning the favour, you know, for all the times you’ve done the same for me.” 

I could feel my resolve slipping, but I stood my ground. “Mr. Wooster, when I shave your whiskers, I do not do so as a favour. Attending to your personal appearance is one of my duties as your valet. Sir.” 

He frowned and drummed his fingers on the lid of the shave kit, apparently defeated. I thought for a moment that he was about to let the matter drop, but he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and spoke again. “Jeeves,” he said quietly, “I insist.” 

Perhaps it was the fatigue, or the injury to my brain, or the peculiar state of mind brought about by our reading session of the previous afternoon. Whatever the cause, I found myself entirely unable to resist him. When I answered, I could scarcely credit the words that emerged from my own lips. 

“Very good, sir.” 

\--- 

Mr. Wooster appeared quite as astonished by this turn of events as I was, but he wasted no time fetching a basin of warm water and lathering up the brush. He drew his chair up alongside mine and set to work. Neither of us spoke until he gently laid his fingers on my jaw in preparation for applying the lather, and I was wracked by a sudden frisson. 

“Oh, Jeeves!” he exclaimed, quickly removing his hand. “Are you all right? Did I touch a tender spot?” 

“No, sir. I was merely startled. Please, continue.” 

“Right ho,” he said, and I noted a slight blush mantling his cheeks once more. I hoped that my own face would not betray me in this manner, and found myself grateful for the concealing effect of the lather. Mr. Wooster plied the brush with a gentle and diffident hand. I found the effect sublimely soothing. My eyelids fluttered shut of their own accord. 

“Jeeves,” said Mr. Wooster some moments later, in a voice that was nearly a whisper. 

“Yes, sir?” 

“Just checking that you were still with us, old man. I’m about to start scraping.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

He continued to speak as the razor slowly glided along the curve of my jaw. “You know, Jeeves, that D. H. Lawrence blighter you were telling me about the other day . . .” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well, he strikes me as a bit of a pill.” 

“Indeed, sir?” 

“Yes, Jeeves. I went to the booksellers after our last conference and picked up a book of his poems. The way you built him up, I expected them to be of the sort that start with ‘There once was a man from Nantucket.’” 

“I gather that his work did not meet your expectations, sir.” 

“No, Jeeves, it did not.” There was a brief pause as he rinsed the razor in the basin, and then he resumed. “His stuff all seems a bit grim, if you ask me. I think ‘morbid’ may be the _mot juste_. Lots of blighters moping about, and occasionally some beazel runs into the ocean with a heaving bosom and meets a chap with an upraised oar or some such rot.” 

“It is perhaps not to everyone’s taste, sir.” 

“There was one,” he said, gently raising my chin and applying the razor once more, “that rather put me in mind of the sort of thing you’d get if you crossed Edgar Allen Poe with Madeline Basset.” 

“How intriguing, sir.” 

“There’s this sort of sturdy rustic chap roaming about the countryside, and all the while this girl is mooning about back at the wee cottage, and there’s this bit about the flowers flirting with the moths or something. All _très_ Bassett, just the sort of drivel you’d expect her to scoop up with a spoon. But then the rustic Johnny starts terrorizing the little woodland creatures and murdering bunnies and whatnot, and the blighted beazel back at the cottage seems positively thrilled with it all.” 

“Yes, sir. You are speaking of ‘Love on the Farm,’ a composition otherwise known as ‘Cruelty and Love.’” 

“Yes, that’s the bird. I take it you know this one, Jeeves?” 

“Yes, sir.” I opened my eyes and gazed directly into his as I recited the final stanza of the poem. 

“’And down his mouth comes to my mouth! And down  
His bright dark eyes come over me, like a hood  
Upon my mind! His lips meet mine, and a flood  
Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown  
Against him, die, and find death good.’” 

Mr. Wooster, who had been sitting motionless and wide-eyed with the razor in his hand for the duration of my brief recital, abruptly turned away and busied himself again with the rinsing basin. “Gosh,” he murmured. “You jolly well do know it, don’t you.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well then,” he continued, without turning back to face me, “maybe you can explain this whole ‘die, and find death good’ wheeze. I always thought the tender pash was supposed to be, er, pleasant.” 

“The poem is of course subject to multiple interpretations, sir. However, I am of the opinion that death, in this case, is a metaphor for surrender.” 

“Surrender, Jeeves?” 

“Yes, sir. The French sometimes refer to the supreme moment of passion, in a romantic embrace, as ‘ _la petite mort_.’ It refers to the momentary loss of one’s faculties – and the brief but utter surrender of the self to one’s lover – during the act of lovemaking.” 

Mr. Wooster quickly crossed his legs, and dropped the razor into the basin. 

“You know, Jeeves,” he said hoarsely as he retrieved the object, “I’ve never been much of a lad for poetry.” 

“No, sir?” 

“No, Jeeves. I think, on the whole . . . no. Let us leave the poetry to the nibs from now on. We shall find something else to read.” 

“Just as you say, sir.” 

This, I realized, would require careful consideration.


	2. Chapter 2

That night, as I waited for sleep to seal up the hundred wakeful eyes of thought, I found myself unable to dispel the image of Mr. Wooster’s flushed and wide-eyed visage from my mind. I pondered for some time on what I might ask him to read to me next, but nothing suitable suggested itself. I entertained, with considerable amusement, the thought of how he might react to _Fanny Hill_. But such a thing was entirely out of the question. My goal was not to shock or offend the young gentleman. I merely wished to titillate him. 

To my chagrin, this final thought provoked in me a sudden and unexpected physiological response. My pulse quickened, my cheeks grew hot, and I felt an unmistakable stirring in my loins. 

Appalled, I flung back the sheets and struggled to sit up. I stared for a moment at the bulge in the front of my pyjama trousers, willing it to subside. It did not. 

“Hell and damnation!” I groaned. 

It was one thing to allow myself to enjoy Mr. Wooster’s kindly solicitude, or even, now and then, to indulge in a little harmless amusement at his expense. But this development ran entirely counter to my policy. I could scarcely be expected to assert myself with my employer, or to maintain my customary air of aloofness, if the mere thought of his sweetly blushing face left me wilting with carnal desire. 

I forced my aching body from the bed and made my way to the lavatory sink. I turned on the faucet and thrust my head beneath the icy stream. The shock was enough to cause my condition to abate momentarily. But as I patted my hair and face with a towel, another recollection rose unbidden to my mind: the sensation of Mr. Wooster’s cool fingertips tracing the line of my jaw as he gently swathed my cheek with shaving lather. I gasped and clutched at the edge of the sink with my unencumbered left hand as my knees sagged, and the throbbing urgency in my virile member returned with renewed intensity. 

The time had come, I decided, to put my arrangement with Mr. Wooster to an end. The little exercise had got completely out of hand, and in any case, my eyesight was almost fully restored. I could surely manage on my own. There was no need for him to keep reading to me, and allowing him to shave my face again was certainly out of the question. In the morning I must tell him, coldly but respectfully, that his services were no longer required. 

In the meantime, I saw that I had no choice but to attend to myself. If I ignored the pleas of my flesh and forced myself to sleep, I would leave my sheets at the mercy of my untrammeled subconscious. Silently cursing myself, I slid my trembling hand beneath the waistband of my pyjama trousers. 

\--- 

No small part of me hoped that Mr. Wooster would fail to keep his customary appointment the next day. I had no such luck. 

Shortly after I awakened, the doctor gave me a brief examination and found that my injuries were healing well. He ordered Mrs. Hodge to remove the stitches from the cut on my forehead, and she was in the process of doing this when Mr. Wooster arrived. 

“What ho, Mrs. Hodge! What ho, Jeeves!” he said as he hung up his coat. “I’ve just had a word with the doctor. He tells me you’ll soon be well enough to return to the old homestead, Jeeves. Corking news, what?” 

Mrs. Hodge chuckled heartily. “Don’t get too excited, young man. It’ll be a goodish while before your lad’ll be ready to start shaking your cocktails and pressing your trousers again. You’d better let him get plenty of rest, or you’ll be hearing from me, make no mistake!” 

“Oh, rather! Good lord, I wouldn’t dream of—” He stopped. It seemed that it had suddenly dawned on him what she was doing, and the colour abruptly drained from his face. “Oh, I say. That doesn’t hurt terribly, does it, Jeeves?” 

“No, sir.” 

“There,” said Mrs. Hodge. “That’s done it. You’ll have a bit of a scar, I’m afraid, but it’s healing up just fine.” She patted my arm maternally and took her leave. I was alone with Mr. Wooster. 

He regarded me thoughtfully for a moment. “I daresay it suits you, Jeeves,” he said at last.

“Sir?” 

“The scar. It gives you a certain air of . . . what’s the word I’m looking for?” 

“I could not say, sir.” 

“Rakishness. I think that’s it. Or possibly roguishness. Yes, I think roguishness is the _mot juste_. One day, if you ever have grandchildren, you shall be able to dandle them on your knee and tell them how you picked it up fighting off a band of fiends and ruffians.” 

For reasons I could not quite define, I found his manner both intensely endearing and deeply aggravating. It was not the first time in my lengthy employment with Mr. Wooster that I felt torn between conflicting desires to either fondly pat him on the head or fetch him a clip on the ear. It was with considerable effort that I maintained my sangfroid. “Thank you, sir.” 

He seated himself in the chair beside the bed, smiling apologetically. “Well, Jeeves, I’m afraid I haven’t anything to read to you today.” 

“That is quite all right, sir.” 

“I mean, I wasn’t quite sure what would fit the bill, don’t you know. I thought of bringing one of my spine-chillers, but I imagine that stuff’s not really in your league, what? You’d probably figure out who did the murder within the first two pages. So, it’s all up to you, Jeeves. What shall we read? Simply point me in the right direction, and I shall rush out and obtain it instanter.” 

“That will not be necessary, sir,” I said in a voice that was, perhaps, a bit colder than I had intended. Mr. Wooster’s face fell, and I felt a pang of regret. 

“Oh?” he said, trying to affect a casual air. “Why’s that, Jeeves? Aren’t you enjoying our little literary tête-à-têtes?” 

“They have been . . . very diverting, sir. And I am most grateful for your kindness. However, it would hardly do for me to continue imposing on you in this manner.” 

“Nonsense, Jeeves. It’s no imposition at all.” 

“Surely you have more pressing social engagements to attend to, sir.” 

“Oh, come now, Jeeves! My engagement book is trackless waste at the mo. Nothing doing whatever. So give the word, and I shall—” 

“It will _not_ be necessary, sir,” I repeated firmly. 

Mr. Wooster looked wounded. “All right, Jeeves, all right. Have it your way. But to tell you the truth, I was rather enjoying the whole wheeze, so I hope you’re not really calling it off on my account.” He fell silent for a moment, frowning and plucking at the arm of the chair in a distrait manner. Then he brightened. “Well, anyway, I’m here. Is there anything else I can do for you, Jeeves? Draw the curtains? Fetch you some tea? I considered smuggling in a half-bot of something for you, but they’d probably discover it and bung me out on my ear in a trice. These nurses and orderlies and whatnot are essentially human bloodhounds. When I had my appendix out as a lad, my cousin Angela got into all sorts of hot water for trying to sneak me a box of sweetmeats.” 

I suddenly found the atmosphere in the room oppressive. “I think I should like to go for a walk, sir,” I said. 

He stared at me incredulously. “A walk, Jeeves? No, no, no. Absolutely not on, old bean. It’s positively arctic outside, and you’re already more or less being held together with cellophane tape and bits of string. Now is hardly the time to have you pirouetting around on the ice. A walk, forsooth!” 

“I only wish to stretch my legs, sir,” I said austerely. “I fancy a turn or two about the halls would be sufficient.” 

“Oh! Well, I suppose that’s all right,” he said, although he did not appear to be entirely convinced of the advisability of this course of action. Still, he offered no further argument. Instead he stood, took my uninjured arm, and began gently assisting me to my feet. 

Until that moment, I had been reassured to find that my uncharacteristic ardour of the previous night seemed essentially dormant. Aside from a brief palpitation of the heart at the sight of Mr. Wooster’s face when he first entered the room, my primary sensations during the proceedings up to this point had been those of mild embarrassment and self-directed ire. 

However, the instant I felt the pressure of Mr. Wooster’s hand upon my arm and inhaled the heady scent of his _Eau de Cologne_ , it was as though a dam burst within me, and the emotions of the previous evening washed over me once more in a torrential flood. I stifled a gasp and nearly sank back down onto the bed, but Mr. Wooster’s arm encircled me in a steadying embrace. 

“Are you all right, Jeeves?” he cried. I was glad to note that his anxious gaze was fixed upon my face, and not upon any of the lower regions of my person. 

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I merely experienced a momentary spell of vertigo. Hand me my dressing gown, if you please, sir.” 

\--- 

As Mr. Wooster helped me on with the dressing gown, it dawned upon me that I was fighting a losing battle. When his fingertips brushed the back of my neck as he adjusted the collar, I felt myself succumbing to the inevitable. I no longer cared what the price might be – I was addicted. 

And then an idea occurred to me upon which I felt utterly compelled to act. 

I coughed quietly. “Sir.” 

“Yes, Jeeves?” 

“I was not fully aware of the extent to which you were savouring our arrangement. If you are really so keen to continue reading to me, I suppose I cannot object.” 

Mr. Wooster was behind me. I could not see his expression, but I heard the hopeful note in his voice. “Really, Jeeves?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

He moved to stand before me. His smile was both bashful and triumphant. “Well, only too delighted, of course. But why the change of heart? Just moments ago you were doing a rather stunning impression of Balaam’s ass.” 

“Well, sir,” I said, struggling to keep my voice level as he drew near and reached for the sash of my dressing gown, “as it happens, by some strange train of thought, I have just been reminded of a novel that I believe we would both enjoy. A gothic romance, sir.” 

He tied the sash and, seemingly without a thought, brushed his hands along the sides of my torso in order to smooth the garment. I prayed that he did not notice the quickening of my respiration. It occurred to me that, under normal circumstances, I touched Mr. Wooster in this manner on a daily basis. It had always been as automatic and unaffected an act for me as it seemingly was for him – simply a routine part of my duties. I wondered, now, if he had ever felt during those moments even a fraction of the sublime agony that I was experiencing now. If so, I had never seen a hint of it in that singularly pellucid face of his. 

If he had taken any note of my current physiological state, he gave no sign of that either. I was grateful for the concealing drape of the gown. 

“Oh, ah?” he said. “One of those historical whatsists with the bramble-covered ruins and the pale, gaunt figure that paces the howling moors and all that sort of thing, you mean?” 

“Precisely, sir.” 

He grinned. “Why Jeeves, that sounds like just the stuff to give the troops. What’s the name of the thing?” 

“It is called _The Fatal Revenge_ , sir.” 

“Jeeves, old top,” he said, giving my shoulder an enthusiastic squeeze, “now you are – as our friend Anatole would say – talking about some turkeys.” 

\--- 

At first, I was terribly fearful of what I had done. I had made the suggestion in a moment of impulsive weakness, no doubt brought on by a restricted flow of blood to the cerebellum. But as Mr. Wooster commenced to read, and my memory of the details of the work began to return, my apprehension abated somewhat. 

_The Fatal Revenge_ , or _The Family of Montorio_ , is a three-volume opus largely written in a style calculated to bore a gentleman of Mr. Wooster’s constitution to tears. The particular scene that had thrust itself so vividly into my mind’s eye on the previous day was buried fairly deep within the first volume, under several chapters thick with drudgery. I felt quite sure that Mr. Wooster’s mettle would reach its breaking point long before we arrived at the scene in question. 

However, Mr. Wooster surprised me, as he is occasionally wont to do. For several days, he soldiered on without complaint. During this time, my inflamed passions began to subside once more. I learned, with only a little difficulty, to shave my own face with only the use of my left hand. I was thus able to evade any recurrence of that particularly disastrous incident. The days were pleasantly uneventful. My healing continued apace, and before long I was given leave to return home with strict orders to rest for another two weeks. 

I had rather expected our arrangement to come to an end once I returned to the flat. It did not. For the next three days, we passed a peaceful hour or so each evening reading in the sitting room, myself stretched out upon the chesterfield and Mr. Wooster seated across from me in his arm chair, each of us nursing a snifter of brandy. 

On the third day, the moment I had been anticipating finally arrived. Mr. Wooster’s patience began to wear thin.

“Jeeves,” he said, “you know I am not a man to complain.” 

“Of course not, sir.” 

“But, if I’m being perfectly honest, this book of yours is starting to give me the pip.” 

“Indeed, sir?” 

“Yes, Jeeves. And I’ll tell you why. Every other chapter or so is full of dashed good stuff, with the mountain chucking fireballs about, and the two coves skulking about in old ruins and running into fiendish creatures in the woods, and monks going mad and whatnot. And then we get about five hundred and ninety-seven pages of these blighters Cyprian and Ippolito gassing on about poetry and the Spiritualism of the Arts or some such rot.” 

“Yes, sir. It is perhaps not the most artfully executed or fully developed example of the genre. The author’s fixation on spiritual matters undoubtedly owes something to his occupation as a curate in the Church of Ireland, a career which was hampered somewhat by the critical denunciation of his earlier works. I speak in particular of his composition for the stage—” 

“Jeeves.” 

“Sir?” 

“Let us, for the moment, set aside the details of Mr. Maturin’s clerical adventures.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

“We shall save it up for a rainy evening.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“What I am concerned about, just now, is when the bally thing is going to come to the point.” 

“If you do not find this particular book sufficiently diverting, sir, I am entirely amenable to—” 

“No, no, no, Jeeves. That’s just the trouble. I’m far too caught up in the thing to stop now. I feel that I must keep on at least long enough to find out what drove the confessor Schemoli off his nut. We were just starting to get somewhere in the last chapter, and now we’re back to the Cyprian pill reading excerpts from his blasted manuscript about this blasted girl pining over some blasted cove. I shouldn’t wonder if Madeline Basset would consider it a bit soppy for her tastes.” 

“There is something in what you say, sir.” 

“And yet this Ippolito chump seems to be shoveling it all in with relish. I’m strongly reminded of the effect those Rosie M. Banks novels had on Lord Bittlesham.” 

“The resemblance is inescapable, sir.” 

“I'm tempted to skip over the whole damn thing and whack into the next bit of good stuff, only I'm jolly well convinced that there's some terribly important clue to the whole mystery buried somewhere in all the mush. Well, at least we’re almost done with this chapter, what? Let us press on.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

“Where was I, Jeeves? Cyprian had just got done dishing another helping of his literary mashed potatoes to Ippolito, and Ippolito was moaning about if only the girl in the story loved _him_ , and Cyprian was telling him that Ippolito was, in fact, the very chap for whom this poor hypothetical beazel died of heartbreak, and . . . ah, here we are.” 

My hands and face grew cold, and my stomach clenched. I realized all at once that we had reached the very scene for which I had selected this damnable book. Before I could formulate some excuse to ask him to stop, Mr. Wooster read on: 

_“Why then did she not live for me? Cyprian, you only mock my vanity.”_

_“No,” said Cyprian, who had risen, and whose whole form mantled; and was buoyed up with  
sudden animation, — “no, I deceive you not; her spirit hovers near us, to attest the truth, to witness the avowal. Hear me, Montorio, would you have loved her?” _

_“You but mock my credulity,” said Ippolito, smiling._

_“No, by her presence, by her near presence, which I feel this moment, I mock not. Answer my question, could you have loved her, Montorio?”_

_“Could I?” replied Ippolito, darting his eye to heaven, “if her spirit be indeed present, it is satisfied with the homage of my heart.”_

_“It is present,” said Cyprian, eagerly, “it is present, and it must hover near us, till it be absolved.”_

_“Enthusiast, what would you mean, what would you ask?”_

_“Imagine me her for a moment,” said Cyprian, sinking at Ippolito’s feet, and hiding his face.  
“Imagine me her; give me one kiss.” _

_“Enthusiastic boy.”_

_“Give me but one, and her spirit shall depart, pleased and absolved.”_

_“Visionary, you do what you will with me; I never kissed one of my own sex before; but do what  
you will with me.”_

Having read these words, Mr. Wooster closed the book, set it upon his lap, and sat for what seemed an eternity in silence. For once, I found myself entirely unable to read the expression on his face.


	3. Chapter 3

“Jeeves,” he said at last, with a quiet intensity in his voice that I had never heard before, “are you chaffing me?” 

“Chaffing, sir?” 

“Japing, Jeeves. Mocking. Taking the micturition.” 

My heart sank, but I sat up straight and fixed him with an icy stare. “I am familiar with the idiom, sir. I simply fail to grasp your meaning.” 

“I may be a chump, Jeeves. I’d be the first to admit it. But I am not an absolute naïf.” 

“Sir, I would never venture to suggest such a thing.” 

He did not answer me immediately. He rose, walked to the mantel, and withdrew a cigarette from the silver box. It was not until after he had lit the cigarette and taken a long drag from it that he spoke again. “Oh, yes, you would, Jeeves. You would, and you have.” 

“Mr. Wooster, I—”

“’Mentally negligible,’ as I recall, is your expression of choice. And certainly I do not possess your talent for cooking up brainy schemes, or your encyclopedic knowledge of . . . well, anything. But dash it, I’d like to think I have a fairly keen grasp of human nature. I know when I’m being toyed with.” 

I had no answer for him. I sat in wretched silence. For the first time in our association, I was afraid – not of what he might do, but of the thought that I had dealt so irreparable a blow to the boundaries of propriety that there could be no possible recovery. 

After another thoughtful drag on his cigarette, he continued. “Granted, I stumbled upon the sonnet by chance. But you mentioned that other poet chappie _knowing_ that my curiosity would be aroused.” 

“Sir.” 

“And then you specifically requested this book, all the time with that rummy look in your eye. In fact, your manner has been decidedly rummy for days. Most chaps wouldn’t notice it, but these things don’t escape me, Jeeves. I’ve been around you long enough to know when something’s up. You must have known. The only conclusion I can see is that you have been deliberately trying to get a rise out of the young master. If that was your intention, you’ve succeeded. You have my full attention.” For the first time, he caught and held my gaze. His manner softened. “Unless . . .” 

“Sir?” I prompted. I hoped he did not hear the tremor in my voice.

He walked back to his chair, but did not sit down. Instead, he knelt to pick up the ottoman upon which he had been resting his feet and deposited it directly in front of me. He took a seat, his knees nearly touching my own. His blue eyes were dark with emotion. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to play Cyprian to my Ippolito.” 

A wave of dizziness passed over me, but I forced myself to remain calm. “Sir,” I replied at length, with all the cold hauteur that I could muster, “I believe that the unusual circumstances in which we find ourselves have created, in both of us, a certain amount of mental and emotional strain. If you will pardon me for saying so, sir, you have allowed yourself to succumb to a flight of fancy. The construction you seem to have placed on the scene you just read, while understandable, is quite incorrect. If you cared to pause for a moment and cast your mind back to the beginning of the tale, you would find that the narrative has made it abundantly clear that Cyprian is none other than the vanished noblewoman Rosolia.” 

He rocked back, nonplussed. “What?” 

“Cyprian is a woman, sir, in disguise as a young manservant.” 

Mr. Wooster gaped at me, his lips parted, cheeks aflame with what I took to be embarrassment. This time, I took no pleasure in his discomfiture whatsoever. “But—” he began, but he could not seem to find the words that he was searching for. 

“I am sorry, sir. It was kind of you – exceedingly kind – to read to me during my recuperation. But I should never have agreed to the arrangement. It has placed an unnecessary strain upon an otherwise harmonious relationship, and I have only myself to blame for allowing it to reach this point.” I struggled to stand. He rose and wordlessly reached out to assist me, but I waved him off. 

I moved as quickly as I could, in my impaired condition, to the private sanctity of my bedroom. Once there, I sank down miserably upon the bed and turned my face to the wall. 

Mr. Wooster can, at times, be a most damnably perspicacious young gentleman. 

\--- 

The next morning, I awoke early after a nearly sleepless night. I felt that this situation called for some effort on my part, however rudimentary, to reassert the natural order of things. Although I was still unfit to carry out many of my duties, I could at least go through the motions of my typical routine. 

I decided to begin with tea. Carrying a full breakfast tray was quite out of the question, but a cup and saucer were well within my grasp. With this simple goal in mind, I began the arduous process of preparing myself for the day. 

I had managed to bathe – after a fashion – and shave, and was just struggling into my trousers when I heard the unmistakable sounds of someone at work in the kitchen. I glanced at the clock on the nightstand, and noted that it was not yet 7:30. It was nearly unthinkable that Mr. Wooster should be out of bed at such an hour, much less fumbling with the crockery. 

It occurred to me that it might be Miss Arterberry, the cook employed by Sir Everard and Lady Blennerhasset, who occupied the flat immediately adjacent to Mr. Wooster’s. Mr. Wooster had cajoled Sir and Lady Blennerhasset into lending him Miss Arterberry’s services, and she had delivered hot meals to the flat thrice daily since my return from the hospital. However, she had thus far made use of her own kitchen for the preparation of these meals, and I could imagine no reason for her to suddenly depart from this habit. 

When I at last donned trousers and shirtsleeves and emerged into the kitchen, I was astonished to find Mr. Wooster standing at the stove, cracking eggs into a sizzling skillet. I very nearly retreated into my room, but he had already noticed me. 

“Ah, Jeeves,” he said, with a quick, tight-lipped smile. “Good morning.” 

It was apparent that he, too, had spent a restless night. His face was unshaven, his hair sloppily combed, and his eyelids were heavy with fatigue. 

“Good morning, sir. Do you . . . require some assistance?” 

“No, Jeeves, I think I can manage all right. You may find this difficult to believe, but I have fried an egg or two in my day.” 

“Very good, sir. I was under the impression that Miss Arterberry . . .” 

“She has a touch of the cold today.” He darted a quick glance at me. I suspected he was prevaricating, but said nothing. “Anyway,” he continued with a shrug, “you shall just have to stick it with me for the day, I’m afraid.” 

I swallowed my frustration. This morning was not unfolding in the way that I had hoped. “Very good, sir.” 

“There’s no need to sound so soupy about it, Jeeves. A little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.” 

“I am sorry, sir. It was not my intention to sound ungrateful.” 

He left the eggs for a moment to fill the kettle and plant it heavily on the rear burner. He then turned to face me, his back to the stove. “It’s all rot, you know,” he said. 

“Sir?” 

“All that stuff about Cyprian being Rosolia in disguise.” 

I had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that he would not broach the subject. I could not restrain an involuntary wince. “I can assure you, sir,” I said, “that the narrative resolves itself in the manner I described.” 

“That may be, Jeeves. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t care if Cyprian tears off his whiskers in the third volume and reveals himself to be Mary Pickford, Winston Churchill, or my Aunt Agatha. It makes not a whit of difference to the fact that Ippolito was practically champing at the bit to kiss a person he had every reason to believe was his faithful manservant.” 

“Sir,” I replied in a quiet, level tone, “I believe you are missing the point. It was not Cyprian to whom Ippolito was so irresistibly attracted, but the mysterious young lady whose emotions were so vividly painted in the fragments of Cyprian’s story.” 

“That young lady being Rosolia.” 

“Precisely, sir. As far as Ippolito was concerned, Cyprian, in that moment, merely provided a convenient surrogate onto which Ippolito might transfer his inflamed ardour.” 

“Rot, Jeeves. Absolute piffle. You can’t change a chap’s essential nature to that degree with only a little warmish literature.” 

“I am not sure I understand you, sir.” 

“I mean to say, Jeeves, if – just as an example – Roderick Spode were to come along and read to me ten volumes of the most gingery stories ever put to paper, it still wouldn’t induce me to kiss him. There has to be something there already. Do you know what I think, Jeeves?” 

“No, sir.” 

“I think this Maturin blighter wanted to write a story about one chap falling in love with another chap, but he simply couldn’t whack up the crust to go through with it. Possibly because he was still smarting from the hidebound old blisters in the literary scene giving that other thing of his the bird. What was it called, Jeeves? You started to mention it last night, a play or something.” 

“ _Bertram_.” 

His eyebrows shot upward. “C-come again, Jeeves?” 

“That is the name of the play, sir.” 

“Now I _know_ you’re teasing me.” 

“No, sir.” 

He stared at me for a moment. There was no mistaking his expression now. He was drinking me in, lasciviously. I had never seen such a look on his face before. I felt as if a galvanic current were coursing through my body. 

“Say it again, Jeeves. I just want to make sure I heard correctly.” 

“ _Bertram_ ,” I repeated softly, drawing close to him. “Pardon me, sir. Your eggs are burning.” I leaned forward, my shoulder nearly brushing his, and reached past him to switch off the burner. As I started to withdraw, I was arrested by the gentle pressure of Mr. Wooster’s right hand on the small of my back. He pulled me close against him, and I stood rooted to the spot, feeling the warmth of his body and the rapid pulsing of his heart against my chest. 

For some moments I scarcely dared to move. My injured right arm hung useless by my side, and I silently cursed the presence of the ungainly cast. When it became clear that the embrace was not about to end, I slowly raised my left hand and allowed it to rest lightly on the back of his neck. He gasped quietly and pushed his hips against mine.

“Jeeves,” he whispered, his breath hot on my cheek, “is this the point at which I drown against you, die, and find death good?” 

“Not quite so quickly, sir, I hope.” 

\--- 

Mr. Wooster did not answer. I stood silent and unmoving as he began to kiss me, working his way up my neck and along the line of my jaw. A strange idea occurred to me – that he had already made love to me, had kissed and caressed me some days earlier, with lather brush and razor instead of his lips and fingers. He had employed the same tender touch then, and had followed the contours of my face in the same fashion. My eyes drifted closed. 

“Jeeves,” he murmured suddenly, his lips lightly grazing mine as he spoke, “I appreciate that you are standing here letting me have my way with you – it certainly shows the proper feudal spirit and all that – but I’m beginning to get an idea of how that Pygmalion chap must have felt. Are you enjoying this at all?” 

“Immeasurably, sir.” 

His lips brushed mine again, but the kiss I had anticipated did not come. I remained still, but he waited, patiently, for my resolve to crack. It did not take long. My hand tightened on the back of his neck, and I kissed him, more fiercely and deeply than I had intended. He rewarded my efforts with an ecstatic moan. His hands slid down to rest upon my hips. 

“That’s more like it, Jeeves,” he panted as I released him. “Took you long enough.” 

“I did not wish to take the liberty, sir—” 

“Piffle, Jeeves. Taking liberties has always been one of your particular _domaines de compétence_. I certainly see no reason why you should stop _now_.” 

“Very good, sir,” I replied, and I reached down to grasp him firmly through the fabric of his trousers. He uttered a startled cry, but strained forward against my hand.

“Good lord, Jeeves,” he gasped. “And to think I was afraid for a moment that you were losing your grip.” 

“I believe you will find that my grip is quite satisfactory, sir.” 

“I’ll say it’s satisfact—oh, lord have mercy!” 

As he spoke, the kettle began to whistle on the stove behind him. I started to move my hand in order reach for the knob, but Mr. Wooster seized my wrist and held it in place. “For God’s sake, man, don’t stop!” he cried. 

He staggered back against the stove, drawing me along with him, and fumbled behind him with his free hand until he succeeded in switching off the burner. The kettle fell silent. But somehow, in the course of this struggle, his wrist caught the handle of the skillet, and it crashed to the floor, dashing the burnt and forgotten eggs across the tile. We both froze in place, staring at the wreckage. 

I eased my hand away from him gently. “I wonder, sir,” I said quietly, “if the kitchen is really the most suitable environment for these activities.” 

Mr. Wooster’s breath escaped him in a rush. “You’re right, Jeeves, as always. If Mrs. Hodge found out I had you standing around in the kitchen doing strenuous exercises, I’d never hear the end of it.” He turned his burning gaze to meet my own, and continued in a low, throaty voice, “You ought to be in bed, Jeeves.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Mine.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

He seized me by one of my trouser braces and began pulling me gently toward the door. 

\--- 

“Shakespeare was an ass,” he informed me some minutes later, as he lowered himself onto his unmade bed and pulled me down on top of him. 

“Indeed, sir?” 

“The man lacked vision, Jeeves,” he continued breathlessly, fumbling with the buttons of my fly. 

“You think so, sir?” 

“I speak of that ‘and by addition me of thee defeated, by adding one thing to my purpose nothing’ gag. Pure narrow-mindedness, if you ask me. You would think a man who went about the place calling himself the Bard of Avon would show a little more—” 

“Sir,” I said, reaching down to assist him as he freed me from the confines of my trousers, “never mind the Bard of Avon.” 

“Jeeves?” 

“Expunge the Bard of Avon from your mind.” 

He drew breath to say something – “Right ho, Jeeves,” or something in similar vein, I should be disposed to imagine – but then down my mouth came to his, a flood of sweet fire swept across us both, and for the next little while neither of us spoke much at all. 

\--- 

“The power of the written word, eh, Jeeves?” sighed Mr. Wooster. 

We lay side by side, exhausted but content. My still-healing ribs flared with pain from my recent exertions, but I found I did not mind it in the least. 

“Precisely, sir,” I murmured. 

“If I had known reading to you would lead to such a happy result, I would have found a way to work it ages ago. Preferably by some means that did not involve you being smashed to bits.” 

“Most considerate of you, sir.” 

“Maybe this is why Florence Craye was always trying to foist various types of foul literature on me. I always thought she was trying to mould me, but possibly I was putting entirely the wrong construction on the thing.” 

“As I recall, sir, her selection of reading material left something to be desired.” 

He shuddered slightly. “Very true, Jeeves. You’d be hard pressed to find a chap eager to leap between the sheets after reading a few pages of _The Types of Ethical Theory_. In fact, I have a vague idea that I briefly considered a monastic career at some point during the first paragraph.” 

“Quite understandable, sir.” 

He gazed at the ceiling for a few moments, lost in thought. “Jeeves, who was it who said, ‘There is no surer foundation for a beautiful friendship than a mutual taste in literature?’” 

“I really could not say, sir,” I confessed. “The quotation is not familiar to me.” 

“Hmm. Well, it sounds like something that _somebody_ said.” 

I found myself smiling. “Well, _somebody_ assuredly has said it, sir.” 

He turned to look at me, propped up on one elbow. “Oh? Who’s that?” 

“Why, Bertram Wooster, of course.” 

The colour of Mr. Wooster’s face – already pleasingly flushed – deepened to a warm crimson. He threw his arm across my chest and laid his burning cheek upon my bare shoulder. 

“Reginald Jeeves,” he said, “you stand alone.” 

I planted a tender kiss on the top of his head. “Thank you, Mr. Wooster. As do you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, this one was a challenge for me to write, but so much fun! In case you’re interested in any of the various works referenced in this story, they are: 
> 
> _The Philosophy of Spinoza Selected from His Chief Works,_ ed. Joseph Ratner. New York: Carlton House, 1924. Available [here](https://archive.org/details/philosophyofspin015732mbp).
> 
> William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 20, available [here](http://www.shakespeare-online.com/sonnets/20detail.html). 
> 
> “Cruelty and Love/Love on the Farm” by D. H. Lawrence, first published in 1913, and later revised in 1928. Both versions available [here](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/47356).
> 
> _Fatal Revenge, or; The Family of Montorio: A Romance_ , by Charles Robert Maturin. London, 1807. All three volumes are available on archive.org. The first his [here](https://archive.org/details/fatalrevengeorfa01matu). 
> 
> “There is no surer foundation for a beautiful friendship than a mutual taste in literature.” – P. G. Wodehouse, “Strychnine in the Soup,” 1932.


End file.
